Butterflies
by JohnPaulGeorgeandRingo
Summary: Sometimes pain is all a person has. Rogue understands that. Why can't Logan do the same? Friendship fic. Set after the events of X1. Rated M for suicidal thoughts, feelings and acts.
1. An Age Old Muse

_**This started off as a one-shot and then grew. I sat in front of my computer screen, had a drink and this is what happened. This is going to be a depressing tale, no humour at all if I can help it!**_

_**And no, this is not a 'ROGAN' this is friendship all the way! ;) LOL**_

_**It's set after the first film and let's just pretend that the other two didn't happen, although I do like the second.**_

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**An Age Old Muse**

Do you ever wish that you could turn back time?

That is such an overused, trite remark; it's a hackneyed phrase, a cliché and it's one that I cannot run far away enough from. In all my eighteen years I have never yearned for such an unattainable thought then: I wish I could turn back time.

When I was growing up I was never a daydreamer. I never sat on the front porch and built a pretty castle in the sky. I never fantasized about becoming a fairy princess, a famous and beautiful movie star or a well to do renowned award winning country singer. No, at the age of six Marie D'Ancanto wanted to become a veterinarian when she grew up.

My next door neighbour was a cantankerous and ill tempered elderly man, he never married and my papa always warned me to stay away from him. 'Marie' He would say, 'There is something not quite right about that man.'

Even at the age of six I felt the need to prove those around me wrong, years later I would run away from home with nothing but a handful of five dollar bills, a green cloak and a duffel bag full of meagre possession's but at the age of six and three quarters I wanted my daddy to know that there was good in everyone.

It was a humid and sweltering August morning when I ventured into the elderly man's yard, I crawled under the formidable chain link fence that guarded the ran shackled remnants of a bygone era. Brushing the grit and the baked earth off of my Sunday best I crept on tip toe to the nearest murky window and nervously and gratuitously gazed into a life in decline.

I was peering into the front room, a room that was in complete disarray. There were newspapers piled high to the ceiling, stacks of magazines, antiques that had surely not been dusted for a decade and a lone framed photo of a smiling young, dark haired woman adoring the peeling wallpapered wall.

I was impressionable at that age and you remember that I wanted to prove my daddy wrong. But standing there in my black and white dress, panty hose and with a large black bow tied in my chestnut shoulder length hair, I felt pity. I knew nothing of the way of the world, I didn't understand that there were those that were poverty stricken and impoverished. Politics meant nothing to a girl of my age; shortage of work for the timeworn never crossed my tiny but compassionate mind.

And then a gentle hand fell on my shoulder and I was looking into the haunted eyes of an exhausted and broken man with a dishevelled appearance. He asked me what my name was and I answered in a shaken whisper that it was Marie.

The man smiled kindly down at me and said that he once knew a Marie and through a woeful frown he told me the tale of Marie Roberts an heiress to a small fortune. They had fallen in love on a rainy evening in March of nineteen thirteen; they were both twenty one and had met at a cocktail dinner held in remembrance for the late mayor.

Marie Roberts and the man courted for five months until one night with a full moon observing their antics in the starlit sky he got down on one knee and proposed marriage. She immediately accepted and they danced as Mother Nature celebrated and a shooting star catapulted across the southern skies.

The man closed his intense blue eyes and wished, he wished that they would be together forever. Hand in hand through life until their dying days.

That muggy summer morning I found out that the world was a cruel and harsh place for those that loved. The young man with the seemingly bright future ahead of him and the love of his life on his arm found that out too.

Marie Roberts died five days later, she was found with a handgun grasped in her unmoving hand and a note was discovered on the side dresser. The man didn't know that Marie was depressed, however hard she fought to overcome her illness it would absorb her mind and destroy her from the inside out.

Every time that she failed she would pick herself up and try again, until one night the dark feelings would become too much for her to handle on her own. She was unable to fight against the darkness that had consumed her and Marie admitted defeat. A single bullet to the left temple and Marie Roberts was at peace but what became of her lover, the twenty one year old dashing man, with a bowler hat and a sharp suit.

He lived on, he was strong but over the years he would never forget her, he always told himself that he should have done more, why couldn't he see the pain she was in?

The man never married and shortly after her untimely death he bought a house, a house that he would live in for the rest of his life... The house next door to mine.

After that day I would always visit the man regularly and over the months we became what you might call friends. I would walk to the corner store for him and buy him groceries with my allowance.

It was a chilly December morning a week before Christmas when I made my way to his home. I had made a Christmas card for him at school and had wrapped a present up for him, it wasn't much but I was sure that he would be thankful. Christmas was a time for giving after all. That had been installed in me from a young age by my parents and I felt that this man needed to feel the Christmas spirit; he had become even more withdrawn over the past month or so.

I let myself into the house with the key he had given me and ventured into the hall calling his name. As I stepped quietly into the drawing room the first thing I noticed was that there was not a Christmas tree to be seen. Isn't it strange what runs through a child's mind?

I called his name once more and then I saw him, he was lying there peacefully in a threadbare chair beside the piano, his eyes open but there was no longer a haunted look to be seen, he looked at peace. There was a photo clutched in his hand, the photo of his Marie and in his lap was a handgun.

I gulped and thought back to his story that August, he had said that he had wanted to join his darling Marie but had been scared, what if she was not waiting for him when he arrived at the pearly gates and most importantly what if there was no afterlife?

I stood rooted to the spot for what seemed like hours taking in the scene in front of me and burning it into my brain. Then I screamed, screamed for the loss of the kind and misunderstood elderly gentleman and screamed because I knew that this was the end of my childhood as I knew it.

Twelve years later and I've returned to Meridian, to my place of birth and to the street where I grew up in.

I creep onto the back porch feeling all of six years old again as I lift one of my Mama's prized plant pots and search for the back door key. Finding the illusive key, I unlock the door and walk over the threshold into a life that I had abandoned eighteen months before. So much has happened since then, I have grown into a young women but my life is tarred by many a bad decision.

I smile to myself knowing that my parents won't be home for another five days; they have always vacationed north of the town this time of year. I used to look forward to those trips to the lake where we would rent a cabin and I would watch my Papa fish for our supper and always cry that he should put the poor trout back in the water where he belonged. I could never hurt an animal and I sometimes still fantasize about becoming the veterinarian that would help the poor defenceless pets and nurse them back to full health.

I shake my head free of those thoughts knowing that they are the source of pure evil, those are memories that I cannot handle right now. I venture over to the refrigerator and open the door. Ah, I knew it. Mama you are so predictable, don't you ever change?

I steal the bottle of wine out of its resting place and take a glass from the cabinet. I could never drink from the bottle; my southern manners would never permit that. I climb the stairs and head to my room, my safe haven from the world once upon a time. Now it is a catalyst for a serious meltdown and I would not want it any other way.

There is so much inside of me that no one ever hears, so much left unsaid and I don't have the strength to sit down and talk to those who care. I know that people care, sure I do but I have become so lonely these past few months. I'm surrounded by people day after day, yet I feel so lonely. My heart aches for the past, I miss my family and know that I can't return to my old life; I'm not the same girl and my life is full of shadows and hurt.

Standing in my room, I kick the door closed and slide down the wall, sinking into the carpet. I gaze around my room, _my room_ and it hasn't changed. The map is still displayed above my bed and the trophies I won at school are still housed on the bookshelf alongside the photos of forgotten friends and family. I open the bottle of wine and pour the amber liquid into the crystal glass; I really do need this drink.

The wine has hit me hard because I have yet to eat tonight, I haven't eaten since yesterday morning and I feel empty in mind, body, soul and stomach.

How did I become this depressed, antisocial eighteen year old with a penchant for trouble and strife? I was never inclined this way, what was it nature or nurture? Was the biggest mistake of my life leaving this house full of love and laughter?

I felt like I had outstayed my welcome in this house as soon as I discovered I was a mutant with the ability to kill with a lingering touch. My parents weren't unkind they just didn't know what to say to me. This was something that they couldn't kiss better; they couldn't chase the fears away.

So I took matters into my own hands I left, duffel bag in hand and a note left on my neatly made bed addressed to my parents, apologizing but begging them to understand my reasoning's.

I had to figure this unwelcome twist in my comfortable life out alone and I always wanted to visit Canada, Anchorage especially.

Now sitting here in my eerily quiet childhood home, in the room I grew up in I ponder the very thought of life. Why am I here? I'm not enjoying this life I have been given, I am drinking the days away with illegally obtained liquor and a scowl permanently etched on my pale face. Should I have left so hastily when I first mutated and do I really wish that I could turn back time and return to my mundane existence?

It's hard to reason with my mind, it is clouded with so many other psyches and other memories of those I have absorbed, I don't know where I finish and they begin. I'm a mixture of so many different components, emotions and personalities I find it too hard to even think at times.

Thinking is for suckers though, I don't want to think. If I concentrate on those bleak thoughts my heart just might break in two.

An hour has passed and the clock on my desk displays the time as one fifteen in the morning. I've always considered myself a night owl, I party hard at night until the early hours of the morning and even then I don't know when to stop. It is then that I make a decision, my life is a mess and I know that there is only one way out...

* * *

The back of my head hits the wall and I close my eyes praying that when I fall asleep, I won't wake up. I don't want to live the rest of my life miserable and alone on the road to hell and back.

My vision dims, my head swirls with promises and the face of my feral saviour. The man that saved me from certain death on the Statue of Liberty and brought me back to life, he left days later and has not been heard from since. He was wrong to throw himself into jeopardy and save my life. What if he had died, how could I have lived with his blood on my hands?

But he had no thought for his own life, I still have his feelings flowing though my polluted mind and he was scared. The mighty Wolverine was scared that the pure and innocent stray slip of a girl had died, the girl that he had promised to take care of. Well, he's done an amazing job because I'm now dying once again with packets of empty pain killers resting at my feet and I am finally truly happy.

I often thought that the name Marie was a curse, after all the great Marie Roberts committed suicide and her afflicted poor lover followed suit many years later and now it's my turn. The pills are dissolving in my stomach and I smirk arrogantly in the face of death. I'm not scared to die, I never have been and this is what I want. I need to die because I have no fight left in me and no hope for the future.

My body feels as though it's floating, it's as light as a feather, as I slouch to the floor in a drugged induced slumber and then a gruff voice breaks though my near lethargic, deadly state.

"Kid!?"


	2. Fading Away

**Fading Away**

_**It's better to burn out than fade away - Kurt Cobain**_

In all the eighteen years that I have lived, I have never watched the sun rise. Not until now have I had the urge to do so. I sit on the back porch steps; one arm casually slung across my knee and the other leg outstretched onto the scorched grass courtesy of the sovereign southern summer sun.

The sound of the native nesting birds rouses me out of my lull and I breathe in deeply scrutinizing every minute scent that my dainty nose inhales. I tenderly gaze up at the overcast sky and smile, a storm is approaching. My ears perk up and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I know that I'm no longer alone. It would seem that my house guest has finally awoken from his coma.

He sits beside me not saying a word and I continue to stare at the darkening sky as his personality rattles in my mind and his voice questions my sanity. Sometimes I think that being a Schizophrenic would be easier to handle, I could take prescribed medication, visit a doctor once a week, and I could live a normal day to day life. I could touch without the fear of repercussions, I could touch without pain and I could touch without the lingering trace of death evident on my tarnished fingers.

My inner Wolverine snorts at that thought and says that I am normal, I do belong at the mansion and that I made a difference in his life and to never forget that.

I attempt to banish away the psyche of the first mutant I had ever met but he refuses to leave quietly and I give in for the moment. Meanwhile Logan is glancing at me out of the corner of his eye and I know that he is fighting the urge to reprimand me for my stupidity. He forgets that I know what he's thinking and he is oblivious to his growling counterpart in my head.

The thunder rumbles overhead and the trees begin to tremble as the wind gathers force. I tuck a loose strand of bleached hair behind my ear and observe the once lush leaves drifting and sailing through the cherished back yard. I strangely feel at ease sat beside a man I haven't seen hide nor hair of in eighteen months and the thoughts of suicide have faded away into a distant memory for the time being. I pull the purple, lace scarf tighter around my neck and wait patiently for the rain to fall.

Logan shifts uncomfortably, cracks a nervous kink out of his neck and cocks his head slightly to the side. "You wanna talk about it?" He sighs having chosen his words carefully.

Heavy spots of rain pound the crumbling and barren earth; I cross my legs and avoid eye contact, there is nothing to talk about. If I pretend that it never happened, then I don't have to deal with another complication in my life. I have caused so much hurt that it is only right that my heart should suffer.

Searching through Logan's recent memories, I learn that the Professor has talked to him about his concerns. I shake my head and frown at the torrential rain. I scoot down the steps and allow myself to become consumed with self hatred; I look into the sky with defiance and tell Mother Nature to do her worst.

The rain lashes down and soaks me to my skin and I can only laugh at my predicament. I'm being touched for the first time in so long and it feels wonderful, I almost feel alive. My clothes cling to my skinny frame and I kick off my shoes and socks and walk onto the sodden grass.

A flash of lightening illuminates the doom and gloom of my life and the storm gains momentum, the tears of God's angels pummel against my face and I sink to my knees. My shoulders shake with wracking great sobs and I curl my fingers into a ball and punch the ground. Tears cascade down my cheeks and are instantly washed away with the unforgiving rain. An arm is looped around my waist and I'm lifted to my unsteady feet and guided silently into the house. The tears still fall and I'm at a loss on how to stop them.

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Logan places a cup of black coffee in front of me on the table and throws his drenched leather jacket onto the kitchen counter. My thoughts drift to a time when I would bake cakes with my mama, we would have flour fights and I was allowed to lick the chocolate icing off of the spoon. My papa was always so pleased when he came home from a hard day's work and would find a homemade sponge cake and a mug of steaming hot coffee waiting for him.

The waft of peanut butter cookies and freshly baked bread would always greet me in the entrance hall on my return from high school.

He falls into the chair opposite me and I wrap my hands around the mug. I gaze into the slate and sombre liquid and it reminds me of the darkness that has engulfed my heart. My heart sinks in response and the Wolverine in my head orders me to talk, not to bottle up my feelings, let it all out and cry on his shoulder. But I silently rebuff his gruff advice and continue on my path to inner destruction.

"What happened to you?" Logan asks his eyes boring into me.

I place my hands in my lap and twirl the loose thread of my mama's dressing gown around my pinkie finger. Why does he want to know? I don't understand why anyone would even care. Surely in the past eighteen months he has found a place in the world, his place in the world. I peek into his memories and discover that he is yet to find anything out about his past and that was the only reason he had returned to the mansion, he needed the Professor to scan his mind once more.

"Kid, you're hurtin' bad."

The Professor sent him to drag me back to the mansion, I've become a mission. Logan's first mission as an official X-man is to save me from harm and deliver me back to the confines of the stifling and suffocating atmosphere of the mansion for gifted youngsters.

I snap the loose thread and begin to bite my nails instead. My Grandma always said that was a disgusting habit, disgusting or not I have no control over the direction of this conversation but I can decide when to bite my own nails.

"Marie?"

That name hits me like a tonne of bricks, it's been over eighteen months since anyone has called me that. I push the chair back and stand to my feet, marching to the refrigerator and throwing the door open. I snatch a bottle of red wine from its resting place and slam it on the wooden country style kitchen table. Armed with a glass I sit down still met with Logan's unwavering stare. I crack open the bottle and help myself to my mama's collection of vintage wine.

"You think that's gonna help?" He grunts nodding at my glass of wine.

I gulp down the burgundy liquid and almost choke at the awful taste. The Wolverine also voices his disapproval at my choice; he says he would prefer an ice cold beer. I refill my glass and with a fleeting look at Logan I glimpse out of the kitchen window and there is a high probability that the rain is drowning my mama's beautiful roses.

Three quarters of the bottle of wine finished and I'm barely feeling a buzz due to the powers that my body has succumb to. I'm just hoping that they disappear soon because I would very much like to drink the pain away. My head is filling with so many depressing thoughts and I feel numb, I only feel the pain now, no excitement or bursts of happiness, only bleak thoughts.

"I can't help you if you won't talk."

I can't talk, does he not understand, I'm too tired to talk. What is the use of talking; when I know what the problem is? I cannot turn back time and live my life again. I pour yet another glass of wine and silently toast my ever changing and deplorable life. He raises a curious eyebrow at me but quietly watches me consume the last drop of liquor.

"I know I ain't been around, I haven't taken care of you". Logan admits gruffly scratching his heavy set jaw and scrambling to find the right words.

His words have no meaning though, he should save his breath because the girl that he knew and cared for has faded into obscurity and has been replaced by a true Rogue. I'm detached from my reality and have no time for friendship or those that care. I'm slowly following the path of the girl I used to be and soon I too will only be a memory.

"But I'm here now and I ain't goin' anywhere, Kid."

I pick the empty wine bottle off of the table and throw it through the air, it shatters against the wall and shards of glass now decorate the kitchen floor. The man sat opposite me doesn't even flinch at my aggressive action; he only studies me with a knitted brow and a look of understanding.

I won't sit here and listen to more promises; I'm already drowning in pointless words of comfort from others. I run from the room, hoping that he will stay away and leave, just leave and let me burn out as the voices in my head scream in protest, wither and die.


	3. My Sunshine

_**Huge thanks to those that reviewed: diamond aka fairy246, wolverette, melificent78 and dulcesweet. The kind comments are appreciated as always. Also thanks to those adding this fic to their favourites.**_

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**My Sunshine**

_**Wine is sunlight, held together by water - Galileo**_

He never calls me Rogue, from that fateful night that we met in Laughlin City he has always called me 'Kid' or 'Marie' never by my chosen mutant name. He doesn't think that the name suits me; the definition of a Rogue is a dishonest or unprincipled person, a playfully mischievous individual... a scamp.

I chose the name because of its other meaning: a wandering beggar, a vagrant. I was on the road to Canada alone, the nickels and dimes soon vanished in a puff of smoke and left me wondering if I had ever had any money to my name to begin with. I was no longer Marie, a vast change in circumstances and the name no longer seemed to fit. One day I crossed over the border and ventured into Canada with a friendly trucker named Amos, Amos had shown me pictures of his family. He had missed his own children growing up but had to work hard to keep a roof over their heads and his job took him all over America as well as parts of Canada. He never complained once about his life and then asked me about mine, I kept the explanation brief. I said I was visiting friends and we had planned to meet in Laughlin City, little did I know that I would meet a lifelong friend because Rogue and Wolverine's paths were about to cross. It was then that Amos turned to me and said "How long have you been a Rogue?"

Logan may not think that I deserve the title of Rogue; as a matter of fact he happens to think it's ridiculous. My inner Wolverine chuckles and announces that Marie has always suited me better; I think that he's a little biased.

I remember when I could feel Magneto's presence in my mind. I don't know what frightened me more the persecution he had miraculously lived through or the bubbling rage he felt towards those different to himself. He was a jumbled mass of contradictions; he had survived one of the greatest atrocities of the twentieth century. Those that were Jewish were being hounded from their homes and those unlucky enough not to flee the country paid dearly with their life's. They became little more than numbers, they ceased to exist as human beings.

Eric Lensherr lost his parents that rainy and miserable morning and grew to hate the world; he too would establish himself as a dictator, the chosen one to voice the atrocious beliefs of a few. Sadly what he evolved into was another Adolf Hitler, a man ready to cause a new war against humanity; he wanted to bring humanity down to its knees.

I feel uneasy knowing the workings of Magneto's brain, I know what makes him tick and yet, I refuse to allow myself to feel sympathy for his tragic early life. Many of us have experienced truly awful happenings in our life's but have never turned against a minority, never wanted to destroy a life because we feel that we need to have our voices heard.

Logan is standing beside my bookcase as I lounge on the bed, I have the opportunity to have my voice heard and I have a willing listener. I chose to stay silent though and watch him pick up a photograph and smile slightly.

"You look happy in this photo, Kid" He says wandering over to me with the frame clutched tightly in his hand.

He sits on the foot of the bed and places the photo at my side. I gaze at my gleaming face, I'm sat crossed legged an arm wrapped around my best friend Laura, we're both laughing, we were at a sleepover and painting our faces with make up for the first time. That was four years ago now this September, I lost contact with her the day I kissed David, no one wanted to be seen with a known mutant. Her parents were very vocal of their dislike and banned her from seeing me, I recall that day well because we both cried.

"I wouldn't mind seein' that smile again."

I push the photograph off of the bed and turn on my side and I hear Logan sigh deeply. I wish he would leave, why won't he take the hint and leave me be. Glancing over into the corner of my room I spot the empty packets of pain killers still littering the carpet and wonder if my Mama has any more in her bathroom cabinet. My inner Wolverine prowls the forefront of my mind and growls in warning he dislikes the self sacrificing thoughts.

I couldn't care less what he thinks, this is my life and I set my own rules. If I don't wish to live any longer, then I should have the right to die.

"Come on, work with me here."

I wish I could block out his voice, it only makes me feel guiltier. There are so many thoughts and feelings that I'm experiencing but none of them are pleasant and they're crushing my already downtrodden spirit. What I would give to be able to hug Logan, smile and laugh, if only I could feel myself again. It's as if Marie has gone into hiding, praying that Rogue can defeat the dark cloud that always follows one step behind her. It's my own little shadow of darkness and I am forever being rained on.

"This is a nice place and all but your parents are outta beer. You wanna hit the store?"

My Papa never liked beer; he said it was the devils attempt at seducing you over to the dark side. He was a strict Catholic and often read the bible in one sitting. My Mama never had any qualms in drinking liquor, she would tell him that he was too straight laced and that he should take a walk on the wild side once in awhile. I was never a daddy's girl, I loved my Mama so much more and I never fully understood the reasons until now. He never wanted me to grow up or experience what the world had to offer me. He believed that a woman's place was in the home, I was going to make a lucky man a great wife one day. I would bring up the children while my husband worked hard and was to live my entire life in Meridan.

"I ain't gonna take no for an answer." Logan tells me gruffly.

He's worried to leave me all alone in case I succeed in swallowing a high amount of pills again. I glance at him and recognize the stubborn streak and flash of concern in his eyes. I don't have the strength to fight against him, especially when he's in this mindset. His demeanour has shifted and the concern vanishes soon to be replaced by a steely glare. My inner Wolverine rears his ugly head again and lets me know that he can always carry me if I refuse to shift my ass. I slowly roll off the bed and walk to the wardrobe; I open the doors and gaze inside at a number of clothes I have not seen in so long.

"I'll be waitin' outside the door."

I really have lost my way haven't I? I may have only known Logan a short time but knowing that he no longer trusts me fills me with yet more sadness. I hear the bedroom door shut and he's now guarding the only exit and the route to my Mama's bathroom cabinet. Inner Wolverine is pleased that Logan is one step ahead of me, Marie is near to tears and wants her life back and Rogue is close to shutting down, she needs to be in control and is itching to escape the darkness.

* * *

We walk side by side in silence, feet to concrete and hands deep in our pockets. One not knowing what to say for the best and the other only wanting to run away from all that know her.

I have already recognized one neighbour and however hard I try to shield my face from curious looks, I'm fighting a losing battle. This is a small town and they don't forget easily which is unfortunate for me and my growing agitation. Luckily the store is only around the corner less than a ten minute walking distance and I can sense Logan's nonplussed attitude as I continue my silent treatment.

I'm ahead of him and venture into the store him close at my heels. He gravitates straight to the liquor sniffing all the way to the glorious beer. With my fingers wrapped loosely around a basket I reach for a bottle of the finest Californian wine and place in the safety of my basket. I have a unique perception of wine, especially from the vineyards of the Napa Valley because each bottle of wine is sealed with a dash of sunlight and when you drink it the sombre thoughts are appeased for a brief period of time. That is why I drink, I'm able to break away from the blues and sun myself in the blistering rays of the sunlight.

I advance further into the store past the toiletries and stop and gaze at the bottles of medication, remedies and tonics. I release the breath I was holding and look around noticing that Logan is nowhere in sight. I have already tried to take my own life once in the last twenty four hours, do I dare attempt the impossible and try again with Logan stuck at my hip? I settle the issue quickly and walk away not wanting to repeat my actions so soon and knowing that it will be made ever so difficult with him breathing down my neck.

Placing my basket on the counter I ask the store owner for a packet of cigarettes and I also buy a black lighter with a picture of a woman dressed in a bikini printed on one side and a palm tree on the other. I ponder whether my new lighter was imported from the Florida Keys. The owner does not mention any form of identification and I don't mention that I'm only eighteen years of age as I pay for my bottle of wine. I can smell Logan behind me, cigar smoke, cologne and something pure Logan: The outdoors, pine trees, rain and courage.

He buys two six packs of beer and doesn't thank the owner, he pockets his change and we walk again in silence back to the house I called home sweet home for sixteen years.

* * *

Again we sit at the kitchen table opposite each other, he is waiting for me to talk and I'm waiting for the liquor to do its duty. I want to get drunk and I want to forget all that is wrong with my life.

"Never knew you smoked." Logan grunts his eyes narrowing as he tries to figure me out.

I started smoking not long after he left; I blame the personality that he marked me with. Whenever I was stressed I would either hanker for a cigar or a Canadian beer and I found that cigarettes were easier to obtain.

"Kid," He sighs. "I can't let this lie, you nearly died."

Yes, I nearly died and that thought does little to shake me out of my sorrow. I wish I had died but I don't think that is what he wants to hear. Does he want me to jabber on and promise that I'll never do it again, I will never hit rock bottom and want to kill the pain permanently? I can't do that to him; I can't deceive him and say that I won't ever feel like that again because I know that I will. These feelings don't just disappear, they will return with a vengeance.

"Here's the deal, I give you a beer and you talk."

He has noticed me watching his beers and damn, he knows that he has me. I still have a bottle of wine to drink my third in less than a day but it doesn't bother me in the slightest, as I have suggested before wine is my sunshine and I will always chose that above everything else.

I can't help but think that Logan and myself are close to butting heads and I hope that I can triumph in the face of adversity as the battle line are drawn.


	4. Existing

_**Thanks to Blitz182 for the lovely review, it was greatly appreciated as always :)**_

**Existing**

_To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all - Oscar Wilde_

I cannot do this any longer; drinking to forget. Sometimes the pain is so intense it tugs, yanks and seemingly destroys your delicate heart strings.

If you had known me in the past you would have been right in assuming that I wore my heart on my sleeve, I was an open book. My emotions were plain for all to see, happiness, anger or sadness until the day my life made a choice and I could only feel the enormous weight of the soul destroying, bone crushing, personality altering depression.

Day after day, hour after hour and minute after minute my mind is filled to an overflowing capacity with bleak, black suicidal thoughts. One after another, a never ending cycle from hanging to razor blades, drowning, drugs, shootings, jumping off buildings to bridges even stepping in front of a truck on a busy freeway. Why won't it stop, why can't I fall asleep with my head resting on the pillow and never awaken again?

Free of pain, that is what I long for. I only want to be happy, Is that so much to ask for? I want to feel again, no, not pain… Feel, physically and emotionally.

I don't want to snap at people any longer, I don't want to gaze in the mirror and curse at my reflection. I don't want, I don't want...when did I become so negative? I can't blame hormones and this is no teenage tantrum. I do not crave attention, I would rather be left to suffer in the unforgiving darkness alone.

I want to hide under the bed sheets, safe from the world. No one can harm me if I keep everyone at an arms length, no one can harm me if I refuse to discuss my life. My heart is battered and bruised, it has suffered enough heart ache, enough pain.

Talking will only cause tears and hurt, more tears and more hurt. My head cannot handle anymore, I have seen enough of the world to understand that I do not have a place here. I am too sensitive, I care too deeply and the stars no longer shine above me. The sun no longer rises in the morning and my heart no longer beats at a steady pace.

I am dying a slow, lonely death and nobody can save me how ever hard they try.

My feelings are not conflicting, they point to only one solution and it is not pretty.

No, my life is not a thriving exuberant Lilly, nor is it a shrinking violet, it is a tangled weave of thorns and weeds in an overgrown garden of Eden.

My life is passing me by and I do not have the know how or the will to fight for my right to live a life free from pain.

"You gonna drink that?" Logan asks pointing to the glass of wine I have been staring at for the half hour.

Drink, why did I ever decide that drinking was the answer? Once upon a time I was perfectly capable of living a life without the taste of liquor on my under aged cracked lips. Now it is ever so hard to sit a darkened room while the world is burning around me. I need alcohol don't I? it is my only constant companion.

"Kid, I ain't a great talker,"

That is the understatement of the century. My inner Wolverine says that men don't do feelings, they only chat about trivial matters like good beer and the likes, never heart felt feelings.

He enjoys cage fighting because there is no talking involved. It is a modern day art form, you dance around the cage surrounded by a crowd of drunken men, your fists clenched tightly and eyes pinned on your opponent, ready to strike once you spot his weakness. He always has a weakness, everybody does. You only have to open your eyes for a moment to discover that.

You get paid for knocking the biggest dickhead going on his ass and money is money, when it is being placed in your open palm. A hundred, two hundred, three hundred dollars plus and you are far from complaining about the origins of you hard earned pay.

"But you're leavin' me no choice."

He has no choice, huh? What about me, when did I receive a choice?

I glare at Logan and he refuses to break eye contact and I am first to look away as usual. I glance at that God damn glass of wine that I seem to have become fixated on and in a surge of anger I swipe angrily at the crystal glass with my right hand. It crashes to the floor breaking into many shards of my Mama's expensive unwanted wedding gift.

Her grandparents gave her a set of glasses when she married my Papa.

Logan raises his eyebrow and his lips twitch. "How long do you think you can keep this up?"

I seem to be amusing him now and I never took a liking to those glasses anyway, neither did my Mama. She did not have the heart to tell her grandparents that she disliked them. Now she has one less glass to worry about, I have probably done her a favour. Not that she would be thanking me, Southern girls with manners do not have fits of untamed fury.

I remove the packet of cigarettes and the lighter from my pocket and tear the packaging open. Placing a very much needed cancer stick between my lips, I light my cigarette and take a deep drag. Closing my eyes, I exhale the smoke and throw the lighter on the table.

"They'll kill you, you know." He tells me gruffly eyeing the cigarette hanging loosely from my lips. I flick the cigarette and the smouldering ash decorates the table.

When you gaze up into the summer sky and catch sight of a fluffy white cloud, what do you see? An animal, a person you used to know, or an indescribable shape?

It is the same when I look at the ash on my Mama's table; I see death, a longing for death that is hammering freely in my crowded cranium, clamouring for a chance to break free from the chains and rampage up, down, around and throughout my shattered life.

Logan seems to have decided to change tactics because he shifts in his seat and appears to be a tad uncomfortable at the prospect of what he is about to say.

"The ice cube was askin' about you, he's got it real bad."

Robert Drake, The Iceman. We had one date at an Italian restaurant in town and I was terrified of saying anything wrong or putting my foot in my mouth. I kept my entire skin covered from head to toe and shrunk back from anyone close enough to accidentally brush against my skin. I was almost on the brink of obsession. Touch, touch, touch, that was all I could think about throughout the dinner.

Bobby was blushing, I was blushing and the waiter thought we were extremely cute.

We were a quaint, sweet young couple on our first and only date. I'm far too different to have a relationship, aren't I?

I can't even touch. You have to touch to have a romantic relationship... Any relationship involves physical contact on a daily basis, the need to show affection to those you care about. I put a stop to our relationship before it even had a chance to blossom.

It was for the best and that is what I keep telling myself. I could not allow it to continue and let Bobby have his feelings hurt. There are too many people in the world having their hearts broken and I did not want to add my name to that long list of victims.

Logan stands up and begins to pace the kitchen like a caged animal striving to be released from his prison, and venture back into the wild. He stops short of a full circle and punches the refrigerator leaving a fist sized dent evident for all to see.

"I'm done with this shit, kid. You've got five seconds to start talkin'. No more crap, now talk." He growls, his hands on the table and his face inches from mine.

Eyes meet eyes and I bite my bottom lip nervously as my palms begin to sweat. I can do this, of course I can do this. Talk, that is all I have to do, talk from the heart, talk about myself. How hard can that be? I can do this, the Rogue is strong, stronger than anyone knows and I can do this, I have to do this.


	5. Personal Jesus

_**I really don't know what to say other then: Yes, I've been ignoring this story and I'm very ashamed of that right now. This is actually my favourite fic I've written. It's also hard to write but does not excuse the fifteen months this has been sitting on my PC partially written for. I also give the four people who are reading this story permission to beat me to death if I take another year and a couple of months to update again. **_

_**Melificent78: Thanks for the review. Rogue might be able to explain what she's feeling. At least she will try to. But will Logan understand? Only time will tell. **_

_**Raven34link: Thanks also. I hope I write more, too. **_

_**Another apology alert. This chapter is a little short but this is how I wanted it to flow and then end it there. Not much of an apology, I know. **_

* * *

**Personal Jesus**

'Someone to hear your prayers, someone to care…'

* * *

Have you ever felt as though you were drowning, drowning when there is no water in sight? Death is clouding your every waking thought, as your lungs scream, your limbs ache and you sink further into an icy grave? I'm drowning right now. I can swim, I'm on dry land, and I even have Logan by my side, but I'm still drowning.

This isn't a childish nightmare, I'm awake and this is my life. I'm not scared of dying, I would never shy away from death. No, I would embrace it, invite death in for tea and toast, share a cigarette, then leave hand in hand with a broken smile on my face and a tear in my eye.

It pains me to admit this to myself, yet it's a mixture of relief and damnation. You need to know, to understand what I suffer through, what I am asking my mind to please endure. And you're the only one I can confide in.

Sure, there's Logan, he's here, but I can't do it to him… To them. He will blame himself, the Professor, Jean, Scott, he'll blame everyone else except the person who is truly guilty - And that's me. This is all my fault, I'm far too sensitive, my morals are honourable, they're virtuous and I can't live with what I am.

My powers make me an abomination, a recluse, the weak link in the mansion. I'm dangerous, my powers know no limits, I can kill with a single touch and steal away the gift of life. I have Southern blood on my hands, and no amount of bleach will strip away the shame. My soul is beyond saving, it's heavily scarred, disfigured, and defaced - The world has so much to answer for… I only wanted to be a good person.

It's my blood dripping from my hands, it's a trick of the brain but I see it. It's in plain sight, it won't hide from me, I like the pain. The pain is me, and I'm the pain. There is no wide gulf, one doesn't end where the other begins, we're joined through a personal hatred of life and each other.

My soul is bleeding from the tips of my fingers, washing away the dirt underneath my nails and staining my gloves. I never liked these gloves or my broken soul. I don't mind losing either; I'm dying.

Logan watches me, his patience is slipping and his temper is on a knives edge.

I only wish the knife was in my hands. That I'd be able to take a deep breath and pierce the skin as I carve my heart from my chest. Then the inner pain would vanish to be replaced by a screaming void and the silence would deafen me. My Gran would come before me, she would hold out her hand and we'd leave my broken, bloodied body to the pain. The pain would feed on it, but I'd be safe with my paternal Grandmother, she would guide me to a better place. There would be no silence, no hurt or pain, only love and happiness.

"Kid, you need to talk." He tells me, raking a hand through his dark unruly hair. "It's ain't healthy to keep all this bottled up."

I never said I wanted to be healthy, I only want to be dead. I have my doubts that the pain can outlive the person. But in my mind and heart, the pain has found it's home. Who am I to ask it to leave? I'll never be lonely with it there, we have a bond, we're blood sisters.

He lights a cigar and blows the smoke in my face. I don't cough, I refuse to look at him. I know if I get lost in his eyes my defences will crumble around me. He will see me for what I am - a failure in life and a coward.

Wolverine doesn't believe in suicide, but he's tough. His personality and character outweighs mine, we're oceans apart and yet, he sits opposite me the concern evident in his eyes.

Somewhere inside me the pain and hurt erupts and I choke back the tears. His eyes have caught me in their trap and I can't tear myself away from them. He blinks and the tears jump, Logan has his prey.

I go to move from the table and his hand finds mine, he shakes his head. The glove separates us and I feel the heat burning through the fabric.

"Let it out." Logan orders, the growl releasing the stream of tears I've been holding deep inside me for so long.

My inner Wolverine grunts in approval as my stubborn nature dissolves. The mask falls to the floor and for the first time in months I allow somebody to glimpse the real me. The pain, the hurt and the inner turmoil are written across my face for all to see, and it devastates the natural recluse in me.

It's too soon, I'm not ready to share my thoughts and feelings with anybody. The walls close in on me and I'm suffocating under the burden of it all. I leap to my feet and fight to get away from Logan, but he's too quick.

I'm physically and emotionally weak, he's strong and his adamantium boned fingers bruise my upper arm. I'm hauled back to the table and I collapse against his burly chest. The tears roll down my cheeks and all the pain gushes to the surface. I can't control it any longer and my balled fists slam against his heart. I pummel the feelings into him, I want him to feel my pain.

He stands there, letting me hit him. He doesn't speak, his stony face only gazes down at me.

The gut wrenching torment doesn't fade and I hold my head in my hands. It's too much, the pain is all around me and sucking the life out of my tired, aching body.

"I can't do this!" I scream, backing away from Logan. I'm not drowning, I've been buried alive and he can't save me however hard he tries.

"Hey, just take it easy." He mutters, holding his hands up and arching an eyebrow.

My back hit's the kitchen wall and I slide to the tiled floor, hugging my knees to my chest and sobbing against the faded denim. They're my favourite pair of jeans, I hope they bury me in them. The ceremony will be simple. I left a note instructing them not to mourn or even remember me when I'm gone. No mourning, no wearing black, no churches or prayers. Nothing; just silence, a coffin and an unmarked grave.

"I don't want to live, please don't make me." I beg Logan in a whisper, the tears streaming down my face.

He takes a moment to collect his thoughts and settles beside me not uttering a single word. My instincts are so badly torn, I want to run away from him but I also want... I _need_ his comfort. My head rests against his shoulder and he wraps his arm around me drawing my weeping, skinny frame against his flannel shirted chest.

The need to be comforted, to feel loved and wanted, to feel safe like I did when Logan came for me on the train won over the desperation to run. I know no matter how far I run from this place, from the pain and the hurt, all the suffering and thoughts of death that he will always be able to find me. Perhaps next time he will discover only an empty shell, no Marie – Just a body void of soul and life.

"You can't just quit life." I hear his deep voice rumble over the sounds of my pain and despair flowing, escaping, bleeding from every pore, line, crack and wrinkle.

"It hurts too much to even breathe. I'm not as strong as you."

"This ain't about bein' tough, its about you not askin' for help."

His clipped tone and growl catches me by surprise and I glance up at him, the tears continuing to fall. "What if I didn't want any help?"

Logan's arm tightens around me and he rests his chin against my hair, releasing an exasperated sigh. "You don't mean that, kid."

"I would have died if you hadn't... I should have died up there." I hiss, the realisation I'm living on borrowed time hitting me like a steam train on a cold, dark and lonely night.

My eyes widen, my heart skips a beat and I wipe frantically at my tear stained cheeks. There are railroad tracks the other side of town. It would take me no less time than an hour to walk there and no fences would greet me. Nothing can stop me in my mission to be at peace and free from this painfully, punishing world.

Every night seems to be lonely and without light. The days drag on with no relief in sight at all and I'm both physically and emotionally exhausted. I'm spent and have nothing left to give. Life has taken everything I had and left me broken. I can't even be happy; I'm a failure.

"It ain't your time, Marie." Logan grunts the bitterness poisoning his words.

"And it's not your decision, Wolverine." I snap back a dash of fury diluting the inky pool of distress.

I scramble away from the comfort of his burly embrace only to be tugged back and dumped on his lap, secured firmly in place by his arms wrapped tightly around me.

"It. Ain't. Your. Time." He grumbles in my ear, ignoring my struggles. "I wanna know what's been goin' on with you. I'm no 'path, so start talkin'."

His words stir the onset of another torrent of tears and I bury my face in the fabric of his shirt. Why don't the tears drive all my thoughts, feelings and desperate pleas to the surface and wash them away?

It's such a struggle to put into words what I'm feeling. I don't want him to think I'm ungrateful for all he did for me. But I equally couldn't live with the thought of him labelling me weak, fragile, young, pathetic, silly... A nuisance.

"C'mon, kid. We're not movin' 'til -"

"Why weren't you there when I needed you?"

Those eight words, one question asked and the room descends into an uncomfortable, eerie silence. My jaw snaps shut and I only hear a rough growl and know I've gone too far.

The only man, person, individual in this whole entire God forsaken world I cared about, treated as family in the little time I've known him, waited patiently for him to return, cried for at nights when the pain became too much to bear and I have uttered the wrong words. I chose incorrect, unfitting words and damaged what little bond we had left.

Logan will hate me now, I just know he will. He's going to despise me as much as I do and I deserve the treatment I have coming to me.


End file.
